I understand.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot.
In the puzzle of your routine.
I know.
How thoughts can become clocks.
The terrifying performance of repeat.
I share it.
Your idea of total estrangement.
Blonde avenues without a silver soul.
I believe you.
Those sharp ideas to break free.
To be ruled by pure impulse.
I’ve got your back.
That plan to draw meaning.
To assist others to pleasure.
I realize that too.
That you’re at the edge of the night.
That you’ve got goosebumps as stars on your skin.
I do not deny it.
The vastness of every unused minute.
Cold, the cold bored instant.
I share your opposition.
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
How small a part of life can sting.
I know.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot  .

A flower is
a knot of chiaroscuro
enlightenment entangled in a coil,
finely spread seasons of spirals,
long mournful curves
chained to moment or cycles,
it is sense in a state of song,
desire dense in dew,
a phase suspended in façade
electricity distilled in feature
a flower
is essentially unknown
some element
in petal passion perfume.

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any *******.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

In the beginning everything was still.
Then there was an itch or ache and totality stirred.
A dance was born.
Wave after wave of color emerged.
Rains of sound were released from the center.
The original impulse became two, trees, fire.
Its unity was broken, reflected from a trillion eyes.
Rhythm appeared as an essential trait.
Pulses emanated, at times violent, at times sad.
Wonder and angst ******* inside the skull’s crater.
A mad civilization rose, structure after structure.
A sea of ideas now saturates the air.
Here we are in this vast corner surrounded by a cosmos.
We are the same as IT.
These images are throbs of that primordial energy.
I have created nothing new.

There is in
my shadow a rock
that seems to be a rose.
This is,
to be brief,
the reality of an appearance.
The field of mist: life.
In it, a hard substance
that imitates the softness of love.
I am spectator and hungry stage.
Everything is busy.
As I am.
Trying, I am trying to be a place
for things to dwell inside me.
I only see the there.
Otherwise to taste nothing
and find it so sweet.
I can look at you, you’re it
that piece of motion that
clings to change.
So am I, besides anything essential.
Here is in that one shadow
a tiny stone we can taste.
Yes, it is really a cloud
without hope of being
like a flower above the sea.

I am observing the world

whose very act of existing

has made us claim

that it is the only world to exist.



I am observing

the shadows of the sun

when suddenly the monkey

appears again, opening

that window

below my language.



It picks up all my words

and chews them, only to spit

them out while producing

a grotesque sound of pleasure.



I’ve seen this monkey many times,

he comes from the world within

that is populated by innumerable monkeys.



They all seek the only thing

they claim is real: monkeyhood.

Monkeyhood is hidden

deep in their jungle,

it can be eaten, soft caramel-like

substance that it is.



But only a few monkeys are able

to reach this sacred core.



The monkeys that visit me

are those that for whatever reason

have stopped seeking monkeyhood.



They would rather appear

unannounced in this world,

to taste a few fragments of illusion –

as I believe they once called it.



I sit watching the shadows of the sun,

here below the clouds while I describe

the indistinct quality of being alive.

The rain poured
a glass of wine
through my lips,
solid chunks of sky
hitting relentlessly
the thin slice of dome,
my head dizzy
reciting the do-re-mi-
cascade of water
breaking into bullets
and merging then
back into puddle.

This started earlier tonight,
white stone sheets,
dense air cool by November,
darkness so natural to thought
that my eyes were shut,
whatever observes
what the eyes exclude,
silently observing
my complicity
with melancholy itself.

So the sermon of blah,
almighty course of opinion,
eternal genesis of monologue,
running never away from me,
but through me.

At this point
anything can happen,
repeat repeat,
or the moon’s light
rising as smoke
into the hair that is your,
to the night I speak,
body’s cosmos.

The rain dwindling,
at this point,
the ache can be melody –

cool whiteness of breath
entering the sore river
of the night,
this time my body of thought,
the house with the wonderful
arch to welcome pain inside.

Do I have hope?

That is,
to some degree,
the question
that draws this poem.